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The Amazing Technicolor Dreambag

A parent's life is full of nonsense. You spend your entire adult life up to this point trying to create some personal context in a loopy world, cramming square pegs into round holes where necessary and resorting to prayer, meditation, exercise, or hedonism to drown out any remaining cognitive dissonance.

You may have finally reached a place where most things, at least, make sense, while the rest of it gets lumped together in a brain file called "Everything Else." Then you have children, and as you enter into their world, your brain files get corrupted, and the contents of the "Everything Else" file gets scattered everywhere, imposing its absurd properties on the rest of life as you know it.

A young child's life takes place in an alternate reality where tiny plastic pigs and goats are not only living, breathing creatures, but can also communicate telepathically and are trusted advisors for any trip to the market. Applesauce is an effective nerve tonic when applied topically, and books must be confined to a hamper when they misbehave.

This netherworld of blurred boundaries and mixed metaphors flows outward from the child and overpowers all other humans in the household. Adult conversation, once the mainstay, has been reduced to nothing more than the need to spell the key words in sensitive topics of conversation, as in,"Hey Sweetie, do we have any more of that i-c-e-c-r-e-a-m left?"

I've adapted to the point where I no longer question the absurd. When Julia announced that she had a gift for me and produced a fancy new diaper/toy/utility bag, I took it in stride, although I was momentarily taken aback by the luxurious black velvety fabric, the blood-red satin interior, and the leopard-skin shoulder straps. The thing seemed a little over-the-top for toting diapers, but what do I know about fashion?

Then I noticed the tag, which read, "Made for you especially by Monica¾."

"You're kidding," I said. Julia was laughing; it was too true. This was a sample of Monica Lewinsky's latest calling: handmade designer bags.

I can accept talking plastic pigs and books with free will, but Monica's Amazing Technicolor Dreambag was really pushing my tolerance for the surreal.

I expressed misgivings about her qualifications. The care instructions recommend Dry Clean Only, but can we trust this? She hasn't exactly established herself as a stain-removal authority. Maybe she hired a consultant.

Anyway, What does Monica Lewinsky know about childcare? Probably about as much as I know about shagging the president, which is to say, not much. What's next, the Kenneth Starr Yoga Video?

Emma looked on in puzzlement as Julia and I laughed ourselves silly while pondering these and other possibilities. It's going to be a while before I can explain why I won't use it. For the time being, let's just say it doesn't match my shoes.

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© Todd Pinsky 1998-2002. All rights reserved.